Redemption
by LondonBelow
Summary: Roger's been keeping a secret... includes RogerApril, RogerMimi, CollinsAngel and MarkRoger
1. Collins

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

"King Kong!"

I heard the name again, more distant, then nothing. I shook my head. Half the reason I kept using this Laundromat was fear. If I had become familiar enough to warrant a nickname from the dealing ring, what would happen if I stopped showing up? Who knew, drug rings might be territorial.

The other half was location. The city probably housed hundreds of Laundromats, not to mention the laundry rooms on campus, but this one wasn't two blocks from my apartment. I didn't need to haul two garbage bags' worth of laundry any farther than that. And I didn't want to feel any semblance of bond between myself and certain students.

Inside, the usual greasy thirty-something who never seemed to sleep lounged in the corner. He never seemed to do laundry, either. Mitchell Schiezwitz, who shook everyone's hand at least thrice before being sure he knew them, sat in a plastic chair scribbling in his notebook. A small Asian woman who let her favorite customers swipe Pocky was loading a corner machine.

Only one costumer was out of the ordinary. A boy of indeterminable age sat atop a running machine, folded into a casual lotus position. He had shaggy brown hair that was damp but still needed a wash and had obviously been dyed: he was a natural blond. His eyebrows betrayed as much.

I dumped my dirty clothes into a machine, tossed in the soap, and slammed the door shut. While I waited, idly watching the machine spin my jeans and shirts and boxers in endless circles, I watched the other patrons. Which one, I asked myself, would most likely steal my clothes if I left the Laundromat?

Mitchell wouldn't take them. He'd just watch, write it up, and possibly name the perpetrator. He was trustworthy without any shred of affection.

The greasy no-laundry man might. Maybe he didn't have any clothes to wash. No, his clothes were in fine condition. He had money. _Drug ring_, and obviously this guy was on the better end of it. Either he'd take the clothes for the sheer thrill of doing something wrong, or he'd ignore them, not needing the cash. And he had probably surpassed the point of being excited by petty theft.

Asian Lady, I decided, was the likeliest candidate. Why would she steal my clothes? Maybe to sell them, maybe to cut them up for cloth, maybe because she was a weird old Asian lady who I couldn't begin to understand. I could picture it, though: Asian Lady bent over a stolen laundry trolley, wheeling as swiftly as her bent old back and sensible shoes allowed. Or, more comically, Asian Lady cackling as she made a break for freedom.

But what about the kid? He seemed oblivious, moving slightly in time with the motion of the washing machine. Still, maybe that was a front. He clearly needed money.

Wherever my mind wandered, it returned to him. I couldn't explain it—something about his face looked too innocent. The neighborhood, just the _Laundromat_ seemed to frighten him, though he didn't even seem to notice that it housed a drug ring.

Asian Lady's dryer finished first. She chattered to herself in Cantonese as she folded printed cloth at record speed. Then she slipped her clothes into plastic shopping bags and waddled out of the shop, sturdy reused plastic wearing into the thick layers of wrinkled skin on her arms.

Mitchell's dryer dinged next. He shut his notepad, bundled his clothes into a ball under his arm, and walked out.

"Bye, Mitchell!" the boy on the washing machine cried hopefully, his trunk extending towards the departant scribbler. He waved. Mitchell didn't even turn, and the boy slumped back, defeated. He looked like he might cry, but I knew he wouldn't.

His washer dinged, then mine. We loaded our dryers in silence. In another season, I might have taken my clothes home and dried them on the lines on the roof. That day, though, it was raining, so I settled into a plastic chair to wait.

The greasy drug ring man left through the back door.

A minute later, I felt eyes boring into the back of my neck. I turned. The boy gasped and promptly looked at his crotch. His face turned bright pink, whether because I'd caught him staring or because he realized he was staring at a sexual area. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, when acknowledging his ownership of a penis—or, hell, even a nipple, is about equal to public fornication.

Feeling understanding for the kid, I looked away, shaking my head and chuckling.

I caught him looking twice at me more before hauling myself out of my chair and ambling over. His eyes widened and he inched back towards the wall.

I offered my hand. "I'm Tom," I said. "Friends call me Collins." And he looked so shocked, either this kid was in desperate need of a friend, or he had never seen a black person before. We were living in New York City. If he hadn't seen a black man before, he was blind.

He shook my hand. "Roger."

"How long've you been in the city, Roger?" I asked.

He claimed, "About three months." When he said it, he straightened up, set his jaw and stared at me.

I raised my eyebrows. "Sure you don't mean three weeks?" That seemed more suited to his uncertainty, and his need to prove it.

Roger sighed. "Two, actually. It shows?"

I chuckled. "Hardly," I lied, and he laughed, knowing it was a lie. "So what're you in for?" I asked.

He looked quizzical, then realized I meant in the city and he laughed. "Oh!" he said. "That was funny!" Not only did I not need his affirmation, his laughter assured me of his pleasure with the joke. He was so young, this boy, the way he smiled and rocked when he laughed, and the way he looked at me. "Life," he suggested to answer my question.

I gave him a snicker of laughter. He needed it. "Yeah? What's the charge?"

"Being a teenager?" he asked.

"Nineteen?" I guessed.

Roger opened his mouth, then closed it. He tilted his head. "Yeah," he said at least. "I'm nineteen." He couldn't have picked a more obvious lie, or a less harmful one. I had the feeling if I'd suggested thirty-five Roger would have agreed to it, though he looked more like twelve.

We talked until the greasy man returned, crunching on the last of a chimichanga. Roger and I talked until the dryers rang finished, and while we folded our clothes. He told me he was trying to be a musician, well that he already was a musician but was trying to make money off it. Was he making any? A little.

Translation: not enough to live off.

"Where do you play?"

"It varies."

He had few items of clothing—boxers, T-shirts, and a spare pair of jeans—so he finished folding well before I did. He slipped his clothes into a duffel bag, grabbed his guitar case, and kept chatting with me.

"You mean like, which stop you play varies?"

He laughed. "I play the park sometimes," he said. "It's nice to get out, you know?"

"Sure." I swept up my clothes and headed out of the Laundromat. Roger fell into step beside me. "How long have you been playing?"

"Only about a year," he admitted, "since I was fo—_eight _teen." He said it like that, with two hard t's.

I don't know why I didn't call his bluff. Maybe because it didn't matter? I knew he was a kid. Hell, he'd've been a kid even if he _was_ nineteen. I knew he was a kid and I wasn't going to do anything to hurt him. "Electric?"

"Acoustic."

I nodded. "Nice." Truth be told, I didn't know much about music. I sang in the church choir when I was younger, up until the profound revelation of my atheism. That is the extent of my musical experience.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"I teach."

"Yeah? What grades?"

"C's, mostly," I said. He looked at me strangely, then got it and laughed. "College. Philosophy."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

We walked a few more feet, then I turned and headed up the steps to my apartment. Roger followed me up the first step, then realized, made a little noise, and stepped back. "So, uh… maybe I'll see you around?" he asked hopefully.

I nodded. "Yeah. Take care, Roger."

"You, too." He sighed, turned and slumped down the street.

As I watched him go, I knew what I was going to do. Roger was seventeen and living on the streets. I had known him for a grand total of forty-two minutes, but he seemed reliable enough. He seemed too innocent to consider doing anything wrong.

"Roger!" I called. He turned. "You got a place to stay for the night?"

--

Things worked out fine for a while. Roger brought in a fair amount playing street corners and subway stations. I was employed at Columbia. All right, financially, we weren't equal. Roger tried to manage two hundred and fifty dollars a month in rent (the lie I told him was half) and sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he didn't. Mostly he didn't. He never said anything, but it bothered him if his thinness was any indication. Kid wouldn't eat.

Then I saw him without dye in his hair.

"Whoa."

Roger froze. He was halfway to the kitchen (didn't eat, but drank a veritable sea of water). He glanced as me. "What?" he asked.

I was on the couch. I scooted to sit up a bit more and said, "Your hair. I didn't know that was its natural color." It wasn't even blond. It was golden. 'Golden' is a cliched storybook romance description of some helpless, overly effeminate princess. Inked onto the page is something roughly the color of turmeric. Roger's hair was actually golden. It shone.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"It's nice," I told him. For a white boy, he looked fantastic, almost attractive. I immediately shook myself, mentally, rebuking myself for even thinking of a sixteen-year-old in those terms. But I wouldn't make a move on him, so it was easy to forgive myself.

"Thanks," he said. Testosterone must've skipped his vocal cords.

"You could keep it that way. You'd probably pick up better tips." This is not to say the kid wasn't talented. If he truly had been playing only a year, he hadn't done much else but practice.

"Why?"

"Because people would stop just to look at you. Roger, you are actually beautiful."

He took a step back. "A... are you, like, a queer or something?" he asked, watching me. When I shifted my position he stepped back again, shaking his head.

"Roger," I said, trying to calm him down. But it only served to mean 'yes'. He fled into his bedroom, really ran, shaking his head and murmuring to himself.

The next morning there were traces of blood on Roger's fingers. Each one was wrapped in its own bandage, barely bending. Luckily for his sake it was his right hand and he only needed his thumb to strum the guitar strings.

Still, it was an odd wound to see. "What happened?" I asked, reaching out to touch his hand. It was a habit I'd learned from my mother. She always touched you, gently, on the shoulder or cheek or forehead, like some form of medicinal magic. When I tried to touch Roger's hand, he yanked it back, held it tight against his chest and stared at me. His eyes went round.

"Don't," he whispered. "P-please. It's n-nothing." He was trembling as he said it.

My initial response was offense. I walked away from Roger and went to grade papers. A few minuets later I remembered that I had been going into the kitchen to eat breakfast. I glanced up. Roger was still sitting there, cradling his hand and murmuring to himself. If I could have touched his shoulder to calm him, I think I would have.

But instead I returned to grading, too angry to even feed myself. Pure spite.

It was only later, when I remembered how he had looked and spoken, that I realized Roger was just a scared little kid. He didn't hate gay people. He was just terrified.

--

Two weeks later, I was sitting on the couch with a book of poetry and a beer. It was my single Friday celebration, and I was enjoying it, though I wasn't happy. There were footsteps behind me. I didn't look up. A fish in the water can sense movement through a sort of external nerve. So I felt towards Roger, though my external nerve was only a sense of hearing met with tension. I didn't read a word as he fumbled around in the kitchen and popped a pot of popcorn. I didn't speak to him and he didn't speak to me.

Roger poured the popcorn into a bowl. He came over and sat on the couch. I scooted my feet closer to my body to give him space. _What? Gonna sit with me, Roger? You're not afraid my queerness will rub off?_ Honestly, what did the boy expect? Living in the East Village-- living in New York City-- he was going to meet homosexuals. This wasn't the midwest. It wasn't Texas or a meeting of the Young Republicans.

"Hey," Roger said.

"Yeah?"

I awaited an apology. At the very least I wanted an explanation. Instead he said, "Want some?" and held out the bowl of popcorn. It was chewy and crunchy and sufficient.

_to be continued!_

_Review? Pretty please?_


	2. Goodness Walks

_Goodness walks  
__Hand-in-hand, always  
__with redemption._

_Good boys  
__Boys who behave  
__Good boys  
__Who do what they're told,  
__Good things happen to good boys._

"_Do as you're told."_

_Good things,  
__Good boys._

_You obey,  
__Swallow complaints  
__And tears  
__And other._

_Good boys  
__Are redeemed._

_Suffering  
__Is redemption  
__Right?  
__European monks who beat themselves with lather straps,  
__God will greet them in heaven  
__Kiss their cheeks  
__They have shown their goodness  
__In strength  
__In this capacity to_

"…please stop…"

_Endure  
__Sacrifice themselves.  
__When they lay abed  
__Did they feel the sting?  
__Did they sleep tummy-down,  
__Did they cry out from motion?  
__Did their roughspun habits chafe?_

_Good boys  
__Are redeemed._

_Goodness walks,  
__Always,  
__Hand-in-hand with redemption.  
__  
Goodness walks,  
__Always,  
__Even when you're sleeping  
__So you'll never catch up._


	3. Mark

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

The loft was four walls and more sets of three making rooms off the sides. Some rooms had doors. One had a doorway, bare, splitting wood betraying the spaces hinges once took. Across the loft, a blanket fell six inches shy of the floor. It looked cold, somehow, completely devoid of insulation and so dim every splash of color leapt from the walls with an air of need to do one's duty.

I set down my bag. The reliable green canvas of the duffel was just bright enough to be out of place. "We're going to _live_ here?" I asked Benny. Already my hair was sticking to my head, plastered thick with sweat. I cared. It was a slightly stylish upgrade on the pudding bowl cut and it looked God-awful on me, but I didn't think that at the time. I thought it looked quite attractive, actually.

Benny slapped me on the shoulder so hard I jumped. "Yup," he said brightly. He gave a cheerful sigh. "We get to share that bedroom." He pointed to the one without a door.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

When Benny said he'd made arrangements to move in with a guest lecturer from Brown, I thought he meant a semester's professor. I thought he meant one of those whose office hours he haunted like a guilty man at church. The last thing I expected was someone I couldn't begin to recognize.

He had helped us haul our mattresses up the stairs, something he did not have to do. I liked him for that, at least began to, but I still could not say a word to him. Who _was_ this person? Was I supposed to remember him? Because, and I could say this for absolute certain, I didn't.

Now I turned to him, clapped my hands and said, "Oh! Now I remember you!" He had quite literally been a guest lecturer, giving lectures for a Monday and a Tuesday, then he was gone. I remembered him, not by his name or looks but by what he said.

That I remembered his words over the fact that he was at least six foot two and had showed up to teach in jeans and a flannel shirt spoke to his brilliance.

Collins chuckled in the way that always made me wonder what he was thinking. There was something approving in that chuckle. I needed it. I needed someone to tell me I was going right. Even in college we had our grades. What did we—I have now? We would measure our lives by money, by dates, by how many days it had been since we called home. We could measure in conscience, whether or not we were allowed to sleep at night.

But it was nice, for that moment, to have someone indicate that I was keeping a good track.

"Anyway, we can rig up a blanket or something for a doorway," Collins said, and Benny and I nodded. We never did rig up that blanket, but within a few months it wouldn't matter. Any blankets we had went to keeping us warm—or at least, less cold.

"That's my bedroom," Collins continued, pointing, "and there's the bathroom. Kitchen. It's pretty self-explanatory."

It wasn't a nice place, but comfortable enough. Collins knew that. He knew it was a bit of a dump and a bit of a mess. But he didn't apologize for that. Collins knew what his place was. It was also his home, and it would be mine. Somehow he knew that. He introduced us to the loft and let us make our own judgments.

It was Benny who pointed to the blanketed doorway to our left, when I was too polite or chicken, and asked, "What's through there?"

It's best he did. Otherwise I would have had nightmares about what terrors Collins kept hidden behind that blanket. I would have imagined things completely out of character, things completely out of reality. Behind that blanket was a fire-breathing dragon that fed on human flesh. It particularly savored the ripe, young flesh of recent college graduates, especially naive boys.

(In my fear, the sexual connotation of the simulation was completely lost.)

But Collins said nothing like that. He just said, "That's Roger's room. He went out but he'll be home later." And in my mind, the fire-breathing, flesh-eating dragon was named Roger.

--

I took "he'll be home later" to mean I would meet Roger later, but by eleven o'clock he hadn't come home and my eyelids were beginning to feel swollen. I carried my pajamas and toothbrush into the bathroom, changed and brushed. I hesitated, looking at my blue plastic toothbrush against the white of the sink, then picked it up and carried it to my room, where I stowed it in my bag along with my wadded-up day clothes.

I poked my head into the main room of the loft. "Hey, Benny, you coming?"

Benny sat at the table with Collins, both drinking cheap beers. They paused and looked at me. "Uh..." Benny glanced back at Collins, then at me. And I felt, suddenly, like a ten-year-old, lost and pathetic and needy. "Yeah, in just a few minutes."

I knew and he knew and Collins knew that it was a lie.

I nodded. "Okay." And I went and laid down on my mattress. I pulled covers up to my head and listened to Collins ask Benny, "Is there anything with you two?"

"Ah, no," Benny said, pausing at the question like such a prospect had never entered his head. It had never entered mine either, but I hated the feeling. Already Benny was forgetting me, and even under the quilt brought from home I felt cold. "We're just friends."

"Maybe you should go," Collins suggested, and I felt a sudden affection towards him.

But Benny only said, "In a minute. Mark's okay on his own." He said it so quickly, I knew he didn't care. Maybe he even knew I wasn't and didn't care.

On my first night in New York I listened to Benny and Collins talk. I squeezed my eyes shut, because the truth is that I couldn't stop crying. I wanted Benny here to whisper with me in the darkness. I wanted to be home in my own bed. I wanted to be with my family. I wanted to not be alone, and I wanted to not be someone's tag-along. The only friend I had in the entire city had cast me off. Millions of people, and I could not dream of approaching a single one.

I did hear Roger come home that night. I was almost asleep and miserable enough that my stomach hurt when a new voice joined Collins and Benny. He was short blurbs of sound, and then he came over and knocked on the doorway to my room. My room and Benny's. "Mark?" he asked quietly. I said nothing. "Mark... You asleep? Okay, man. I'm Roger. Welcome to the loft. I'll tell you tomorrow."

And then I fell in love with him.

At first, it was stupid. It was a crush. It was a little boy. And it was a rockstar.

The first time I saw Roger on stage, I didn't know him. It's hard to know the guy who doesn't speak to you over his Lucky Charms. He wasn't rude, exactly; if I spoke he did. He said good morning. Well, he grunted it, but without malice. He just wasn't awake enough for conversation at ten or eleven o'clock in the morning.

I chose to believe that if I had been upset, he would have been sympathetic. But until the night I went to his show, Roger was a cute smile and sparkling eyes, neither meant for me. He would grin over my head and nod at something Collins said and my heart would twist happily.

And then he wasn't just a nice face. He was the pulse in my groin. He was the stains on my sheets. He was a steady light in a dingy room, screaming bright into the microphone and blond hair showing through the undone top button of his spotty Hawaiian-style shirt. I didn't even want to go to the concert. I only went because I had to get out of the loft. I barely went anywhere, and I hated it, and then I found God in a stage beauty.

It wasn't a nice club. It wasn't a pleasant place to be. If Roger had not, in a strange display of affection, invited me to see his band play (told Collins he could come "pick up some fanboys" if he liked, gotten a one-finger salute in response, then turned to me and asked if I wanted to come), I would have left. It reeked of cheap, cheap alcohol and old urine—not wholly different essences. The overcrowding would have concerned any fire marshal who cared or knew the term "triangle shirtwaist". It was badly lit and IDs barely given a cursory glance, seedier than a garden in April.

And then he took the stage. He didn't step onto it. He took it. When Roger emerged to the forefront his band disappeared. Their existence hinged on his musical needs, and through a system of crackling, beer-soaked acoustics, Roger's voice filled the club and osmosed through my skin, and my blood carried it into my heart where it settled, comfortably paving an until-then-gaping hole.

The writhing chorus of bodies longed to take Roger home. Hundreds of minds remembered him with their fingers and hands and shower heads. Everyone wanted him, but after the show I was the one whose opinion he asked.

I was the one who took him home.

--

"Don't, Mark."

I glanced up. "Huh?" Roger had just gone out. He had a… _fantastic_ behind. Fairly flat. The gentlest curves. I always stared at the doorway he went through, my mind lost in thought about his rear.

Collins shook his head. "Roger… isn't…" He shook his head again. Collins sat down on the couch with me like we were friends. Later, we would be, but at that point he was still the guest professor. I never could speak to professors. I could only listen to them. "Roger doesn't swing that way," he said conversationally.

I scoffed. "I'm not…"

"Yes, you are." The way Collins said it, it wasn't offensive. It also wasn't up for debate. He had given me the chance to take word willingly. Now he was going to insist. "Listen…" He said, "Roger found out I curved, he wouldn't even be in the room with me for over a week. And he didn't do it like he was angry, he was terrified. Leave him alone, okay?"

I frowned. I wouldn't have hurt him! I was attracted to him, that was all, and it was perfectly normal! "I just like him. I won't hurt him," I protested. What did Collins take me for? Couldn't he see that I was a nervous kid fresh out of college, not some sexual predator? For God's sake, I was a virgin!

(Yes, with men and women.)

Collins nodded. "You seem like a good kid, Mark." I all but glowed under his praise, slight and qualified though it was. Then he shook his head and said, "I'm asking you to do me the favor of not hitting on Roger. At least get to know him, if you must. Give it time until you're sure it's worth getting your heart broken over."

I had no grounds to object. Collins actually seemed to care quite genuinely, and to my surprise about me as well as Roger. Maybe my skin longed for Roger's touch, maybe my pelvic area long for his, but my stunted heart wanted more desperately for Collins' approval.

_to be continued!_

_...review? Pretty please?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Don't ask me  
__As the sweat creeps across my ribs  
__As my thumb itches to be sucked  
__As the air grows thin and cold,  
__Don't ask me,_

"_What do you mean?"_

_Don't look at me  
__Not like that with your eyes so wide  
__Not with a gaze so loving and open  
__With your weight shifted to ready embrace  
__Don't look at me,_

_You touch my hand._

_Don't answer  
__Something wicked calling the air from my lungs  
__A racing pulse pushing beads of sweat  
__And a door to my left, front and back  
__Don't answer._

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

_Don't say my name  
__Your tone so soft I know you'd understand  
__My chest itches to speak the truth,  
__If you do I'll know you love me.  
__Don't say my name_

_Like a puff of air_

_Don't accuse  
__Don't wet your lips, buy seconds for courage  
__I see your fingers tense.  
__You want to hold my hand.  
__Don't accuse—_

"—_your father—"_

_Don't admit  
__Chest hurts  
__Throat hurts  
__Tummy hurts  
__Don't admit, omit, vomit—_

"_Loved me."_

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

_Don't see my lie.  
__Your eyes look into my face, gently  
__You understand. You love me.  
__You love me. You forgive me.  
__Don't see my lie._


	5. Maureen

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

I got dumped for the first time when I was fourteen. I had never before dated. I fell in reckless teenage love.

After a rough couple of years in middle school, getting picked on almost nonstop for being fat, I made a friend. I was insanely happy. _Friend_. I, Maureen Annie Johnson, had a friend. Maybe I didn't have friends, but I had friend. Her name was Bonita and we sat together in Spanish class. Bonita's parents barely spoke English: she was fluent in Spanish. I had a gift for it. Neither of us paid any attention.

I would always wonder... would Bonita have even looked at me if she hadn't been fat herself? Or would I have been a spot of gum on the pavement?

She would come over to my house after school and listen to tapes. We would read the same books and talk about them and do crossword puzzles together. Often she borrowed my tapes. "I can't stand Wham!," she told me once. Within a week she was singing "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go".

"My little sister loves it," she said. "I've gotten used to it."

How anyone could dislike Wham! was beyond my reckoning.

Bonita borrowed my books and my tapes and kept them ages before returning them. I didn't mind. She told me about her summer fling and all I could think about as she wrote the kissing scenes in our boy-on-boy romance stories was how I wished she would kiss _me_.

I wrote the sex scenes because I was the one who had tried anal masturbation. (I hadn't been able to get my fingers up very far, and although I knew I didn't have a prostate I did enjoy it.)

Bonita started coming over to my house every day. She came out to me. She told me she couldn't tell her staunchly Catholic parents, who practically had an exorcism when they caught her masturbating. I thought about her vagina and what it would taste like. I was chubby, but Bonita was obese. She wore skintight clothes even so, just this side of camel toeing it.

I never told her these thoughts. Too embarrassed, I proposed it as "experimentation."

I kissed her. She kissed me. For two weeks we were a couple—at least in my eyes. We were in love—at least in my eyes. The truth is, nothing changed. We kissed once, and nothing more. I thought it more. I was always baking for her and not telling my parents about her, even though I think they knew.

And then one day she stopped returning my phone calls. She stopped talking to me at school. She stopped being nice to me. She stopped looking at me. And I stopped eating.

--

When I was fifteen I went to my father's boss's Christmas party wearing a white dress with blue piping at the neck and waist and shoulders. My mother liked it because it made a point. I took my Star of David and strung it on a red-and-green striped shoelace which I tied around my neck, and I slipped on my lacy black panties under the nice white-and-blue dress.

The Christmas party was at my father's boss's house. Why not just paint the word "Braggart" on the front door? Seriously, it's not subtle. It makes you seem like you need to seem likeable, which makes you seem not. It was a big enough house. The boss had his kids lined up to say hello to guests. The cutest was a little blonde girl in a pink and black dress who stuck her finger up her nose. The boys looked uncomfortable in their miniature penguin suits.

Amber and Joseph Archer were there with their brood, as well as the Pendletons, the Clarkes, the Morgans, the Lowneys, the Bells, the Stones, the Hacketts, the Barlows, the Fieldses, the Russells, the Normans, the Harrises, the Sullivans… You get the idea. A bunch of people we knew by their fathers, a bunch of people we didn't begin to know.

I remember that Evelyn Davis was there (the only divorcee) with her daughters, Naomi "Nomi", who screamed _dyke_ but somehow wasn't one and Rebecca who was studious and quiet and nice if a bit boring. Nomi was teaching judo holds to the younger boys.

I ended up spending most of the evening with Brian Morgan and an endless glass of red wine which I drank through a yellow Crazy Straw. I was too drunk to remember whether or not I told him no. Maybe he didn't ask. I just know he was kissing me and then we were in the kids' bedroom and my dress was up around my hips and he was sweating and grunting and I couldn't stop laughing.

I hurt, after.

I saw him at another company event later that year, and he blushed and turned away. If I could change anything in my life I would go back and not bleed for Brian Morgan. But changing that one thing would change everything. We can't shoot dinosaurs, alter election results, or unfuck.

--

I fucked a lot after that.

I fucked a football player. I fucked a nerd who couldn't look me in the eyes but gazed with reverence on my pussy. I fucked an undocumented twenty-one-year-old and my tennis coach and an "actor" with a minor roll in a school play. I was the high school slut, though I dressed like any other geek in jeans and sweaters.

I still didn't eat and every time I fucked I called it rape. I thought I wanted it. I didn't. When a guy's on top of you he only thinks of his dick. You don't matter.

I made it as far as college. I managed decent grades. I went to play auditions. I fucked like a dog in heat. And I went on doing this and not eating. Sometimes I would eat breakfast and feel nauseous and puke it up.

Then the unthinkable happened: I was caught.

During my junior year, when I was feeling old and ugly and sagging, when I was feeling tired and hurting all the time, I all but forgot about my elective course. Six weeks until final grades I had a D. I _couldn't_ have a D. As long as I did I couldn't eat. I got cramps, nothing would fit down my throat, and I couldn't sleep.

I did the logical thing and fucked the T.A., and that was when I got caught.

Jason—that was his name—immediately went limp when he realized. I remember his name because the professor said, "Jason," and Jason screamed and pulled out. He zipped up his fly and I buttoned mine. The professor, who had been pointedly looking at the floor, looked up when Jason tried to leave. "Wait," he told him, and Jason did. To me, he said, "Did you consent?"

I nodded.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Professor, I wouldn't—" Jason began, but the professor said, "You're fucking a student in my classroom, forgive my complete lack of faith in your common sense." I backed away from his voice. He wasn't one of those professors. If you showed up too late, he would mock you, he wouldn't snap at you. When he talked to Jason, his voice went cold and sharp. I hit the wall. "Maureen?"

"I consented," I whispered. Tears began to roll down my cheeks, freezing cold.

"Jason, out," the professor said. When the door shut, I started sobbing. The professor asked, "Do you want me to call the nurse?"

"No," I whimpered. Jesus, God in heaven, _no_. The last thing I needed was a series of clinic questions concerning whether or not I had a sexually transmitted disease. The last thing I needed was to feel like some bugged whore.

"Do you want your R.A.?"

A completely overeager stranger? "No."

"Is there anyone, a friend or a family member, someone you can stay with while you're upset?"

I shook my head. "No." Even if I was anywhere near my mother, she wouldn't care. My father certainly wouldn't, plus he was probably away on business.

The professor sat on a desk. Literally on it. "Do you want to talk?" he asked.

I nodded. "Okay," and then I said nothing.

"Tell me why someone as smart as you has a D in my class."

That made me cry harder. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to, Professor, I just…" I wailed.

"No, you don't," he agreed. "Maureen… would it be all right if I hugged you?"

I nodded, surprised that I wanted that. When he did I clung to him and pressed my face into his chest and probably stained his shirt with tears and snot and spit, but he didn't say anything about that. He let me cry until I was finished, then I told him—everything—and I started crying again a few times. I told him about Bonita, which no one knew, and about Brian, which also no one knew, and then I didn't know who else up to Jason.

I tried to admit an honest number, but in all truth I had lost count. "I'm a slut," I murmured.

"By definition," the professor agreed, much to my surprise. His tone held no offense. "But there's more to it than that. You've been misused. You've been hurt. Maureen, you're looking for something, but whatever it is you won't find it like this. I know."

He knew? Did that mean he had... like me...?

"I must look horrible," I said, the last time I cried.

"No," he said. "Coming from the gayest man in New York, I think you're beautiful." We both laughed at that. Later, when he had become friends and he had stopped being 'Professor' and was just 'Collins', he never mentioned this. I appreciated his confidence.

--

When he invited me out drinking with his friends, I accepted. "You have to call me 'Collins', though," he said. "I'm asking you as a friend." By that time I was a senior. I said yes.

His friends were two blond boys, one darker one lighter but both undeniably blond. They were "Roger, a musician, and Mark, a filmmaker," and I was "Maureen, student, kindred spirit, going to be an actress". I liked that he said "going to be", not "wants to be" like my mother in her quiet, apologetic tone.

"You can use me in one of your movies, Mark," I said.

"Yeah," Mark said. He glanced at Roger. I could see why. Roger was handsome. No, he was beautiful. His hair was long and curly and fell over his eyes. He was slow to smile and seemed to see everything and he didn't talk unless he had to.

"Roger, what are you drinking?"

"Coke."

"Why?"

"It's good."

"Oh." I paused to regroup. By this point I had had two glasses of wine and a beer, enough to intoxicate me. Roger was nursing his Coke. I placed my hand over his. "So where did you grow up?" I asked.

Roger said, " New York," and he pulled his hand away. To Collins and Mark he said, "I think I'm gonna head home. Catch you guys later."

"Well, hey, I'll go too. It's a… not a great neighborhood. You know," Mark babbled.

I don't know what my excuse was for joining them. I just know that I did. I put myself in their charge. In his bed. Only when I awoke it was the wrong 'him'.

Mark stared at me, wide-eyed. He was staring when I awoke and I had the impression he had been staring for some time. "Um," he said. "Good morning!"

That was how I started dating Mark Cohen. We both made mistakes and he wanted to do right. It was never love. It was never 'making love', it was making sweaty-nervous-babbling-breathless-mantraesque fumbling.

It was chivalry.

_to be continued!_

_Please review? Pretty please?_


	6. A girlfriend

I like the way she holds my hand  
and I like the fact that I dance  
when she does. And the fact that  
she smiles. She's

always smiling. Even when  
she's (or I'm) crying, April  
is smiling. And she loves  
me. Someone magic like April

loves someone normal, like  
me. She comes to the street  
outside the apartment,  
and calls me, and I look

over at Collins out of pure  
habit (even though the first  
time I asked him he laughed  
at me and said I didn't need

permission, but never trust  
a woman.) then fly out of  
the apartment, and April  
takes me dancing.

Tonight she disappears.  
One minute she's there  
with a cup of warm beer  
in her hand. The next,

she isn't. Here. At all.

"April?

"April?

"April?"

She's not here, even  
in the bathroom, so I  
try the exits. Not out  
front, but the back/side

exits find me April  
in her tiny dress and  
my denim jacket, and  
she is with

someone else.

"April?"

"Roger! We  
need to talk."

Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me

"I want you to try  
this. It'll make you  
feel better." "I feel  
fine." "You're so  
unhappy." "No, no,  
I—" "Just one."

"Okay."

The needle hurts when it  
pops through my skin, and  
in the moment before I  
see the pointed scoop on

the end of the needle that  
goes into my arm, goes  
into my vein—"Don't  
worry, Roger, I'll be  
an RN in six months."

Liar. In six months she'll  
be dead and I'll be dying.  
Or I'll be in pain and  
wishing I wasn't dying.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's  
okay, it'll be over soon."

"I want to die!"

Collins is the most amazing  
person in the world, because  
he laughs (in the nice way)  
and says, "That's okay, Roger:

you're sixteen."

I laugh and fall into deep  
platonic love. It's only  
later, when I'm lying awake  
and keeping my sadly

pathetic little noises of  
pain as small as possible,  
that I remember to say,  
"I'm nineteen."

Collins doesn't hear  
and I never correct him  
about my age again.

I have a dream that night  
and realize April is just  
what I ran away from  
when I came to the

city, that I ran right into the  
arms of my nightmare—and  
the truth is that I knew, that  
I was too scared, that it was

familiar, that it was comfortable  
no matter ho much I hated it.

I'm the same little boy, and  
I still cry at night from the same

bad dreams.

_To be continued!_

_And thank you to everyone who reviews. I really appreciate it._


	7. Mimi

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

I guess when you're with someone like Roger, you're not supposed to complain. Or maybe you're supposed to not want to complain?

I mean look at the boy, for one thing. Now, I'm not a lesbian, even part lesbian, but part of Roger reminded me of a woman. It was the beautiful part, like how his lips were so pink like he'd rubbed ice across them. He definitely had masculine lips—thin and strong, and when he open-mouth kissed he took control, but the color was beautiful and feminine.

He moved like a lady, too. He was graceful. A boy that tall and skinny, you expect him to be a little jumpy, always expecting to do something clumsy. It's like tall girls slouching, it's just how things are. Roger didn't do it, though. He _knew_ how to move, just like he _knew_ people were attracted to him.

He never seemed to care about the latter. Further strange.

Between the womanliness, the confidence, and the fact that he didn't care who looked at him, Roger was the epitome of sexual tension. But he didn't seem to have a sex drive.

Once… it was June, a hot night. I had hoped to score—after six months of dating, the guy didn't put out. How can that happen? I dressed tight. I didn't wear bras—not that I usually did, but I stopped altogether. And a few times I even didn't wear underwear.

I arranged to meet Angel at the Life Café after work for dinner—mostly because it was close. I think that's a big part of what made it our hangout. Sure, we were in New York, and we all split up when we went on dates—Joanne and Maureen went to clubs or reliably demure restaurants, depending on who decided; Collins and Angel went to either sidewalk type joints or foreign places; me and Roger… eh. He liked to walk.

But when everyone got together, we came to the Life Café.

That day, Angel was coming, so Collins came too, since they were pretty much joined at the hip.

(Excuse me while I pretend I wasn't jealous.)

Roger meeting me there meant Mark would come. Was it supposed to be subtle, his little crush? The only person who _didn't _know was Roger. I had even heard Collins joke about it, and his joke was so funny I laughed even though I wasn't crazy about him (a none-too-easy feat, keeping my friendship with Angel in mind).

Anyway, it was the five of us and beer and wine and Coke, since Roger never drank alcohol. When he ordered Coke and a burger, I laughed. So did Angel.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"You eat like a sixteen-year-old boy," I teased.

"Oh," was all Roger said. He glanced at Collins and said "oh" again and drank his Coke.

Collins leaned over and whispered something to Angel. Angel covered her mouth with her fingers and stared at Roger. She stared the way people stare at us when they find out that we have HIV. "What?" I asked.

"Oh…" Angel looked at me, then at Roger, then at Collins, and said to Roger, "Honey, you could've said. There's nothing _wrong_ with having low blood iron levels."

She's a horrible liar. Even Roger could tell it wasn't true. He had that look I knew all too well after six months. This is what The Look meant: the next thing that happens will determine whether Roger is playful and the light of the party, or storms out of here in a furious sulk.

"Hey, Roger, guess what," Mark said. He knew The Look, too.

"What?"

"I met a Buddhist today."

"You mean in the orange robes?" he asked.

Mark said, "No, in Central Park at the hot dog stand," and Roger laughed. I knew the joke, too: _he's the man who says, 'make me one with everything'._ I also knew that Roger loved that joke, and the one about Napoleon, and such. Why hadn't _I_ thought of that?

A part of me hated Mark then. Why did he _always_ have to have the right answers? Ok, yes, he had known Roger much longer than I had, but… I was his girlfriend, dammit! I should've been the one making him smile!

Collins directed the conversation towards politics, at which point he and Mark were the only ones who knew what the hell was going on, but they talked anyway. When it came to politics, I didn't care, Angel agreed with Collins, and everything Roger knew he learned from Collins. (See why I didn't like him?)

The food came and we ate. Somehow we all had money then. Mark was working part-time at a kosher deli, Collins was employed at New York University (bitching about Tisch and extolling Galatin as usual), and Angel had been doing her Jill-of-all-trades act.

As for Roger, he must have had a gig that week, because I remember his description of it. And I remember being jealous.

Is that awful? I just wanted him for once to recognize that _I_ felt that way, too, that _I _liked being admired for what I was good at. So what if I was good at dancing and looking sexy? I was good, dammit. I was good, too, and I liked to be looked at for how good I was.

One thing I wasn't, though, was stupid, and trying to convince Roger to be glad that I was a stripper would've been plain stupid. I guess my argument was more that he should be glad I was happy, but Roger was obsessed with the "stripper" aspect.

According to Collins, we were all archetypes.

(Yeah, I know that word.)

Mark was the 'blind visionary'.

Roger was the 'minstrel with a broken soul and golden voice'.

Angel was the 'angel walking among mortals'.

I was the 'stripper with a heart of gold'. That's it. That's why I hated him. Even Collins saw me as nothing more. He counted himself a philosopher, not by his day job, but _I_…

Anyway, that day, while we were walking out of the café, I latched myself to Roger's arm and whispered to him, "Hey, Roger."

"Yeah?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

That was _supposed_ to be a treat for him. I'd even shaved.

(According to Angel, what scares a lot of men is how confusing it is under the hair down there.)

Roger didn't consider this. His face darkened. With Roger, you can see the way his soul peels back from his eyes and retreats deeper. "Um… maybe me and Mark should stop and buy milk," he murmured. He took off his sweater and tied it around my waist. "Okay? Right, Mark?"

_Damn._

--

I sat one day and listened to Angel play. She said that I made her extra cash by sitting there looking dejected.

"So what's up, Mimi?" she asked, when there weren't many people around.

"Why doesn't Roger want to have sex with me?" I asked.

Angel considered for a moment. The look on her face made it abundantly clear that _she_ had been getting _plenty_ from her man. Despite my mild grudge against Collins that he saw me as nothing but a stripper, I had to admit he seemed to do better than Roger in the 'boyfriend' department.

"Maybe he's a virgin, or had a bad experience. Or maybe he's just not sure that you're ready."

"Angel, I couldn't _be_ more ready!" I cried, exasperated. "I _shaved_ for him! I never wear jeans, or bras, and sometimes not even underwear! Does he need a neon _sign_?!"

Then, very gently, Angel asked, "Do you think you might be coming on a little strong?"

I sighed and slumped down on my crate. I had come for sympathy and guidance, the last thing I needed—from her!—was criticism. Angel played for a while and made a little money, then paused and said, "Have you told Roger all this?"

"What, that I've worn out three sets of batteries waiting for him?" I retorted.

"Not… exactly that." Angel laughed. "Just that you're frustrated. That you want him to make love to you."

I made a face. "I want him to fuck me."

"Somehow, I don't think Roger likes to call it 'fucking'."

"That's what it _is_!"

"But is it who he is?"

I sighed again and slumped down on my crate. The best part about a friend like Angel was how she was always right. The worst part about a friend like Angel… same answer.

--

That night in June, I finally made my way into Roger's bed. Most of us were more than a little drunk. He rested a hand on Mark's back and asked, "You okay?"

"Yeashure," Mark slurred, a combination of "yeah" and "sure". Then he headed towards his bedroom, tripped, giggled, and made it.

Roger chuckled. Since he never drank anything but pop, the drunkenness did not extend to include him. He had an arm around my shoulders that I wasn't about to surrender. "You want to stay here tonight?" he asked.

Yes please finally THANK YOU GOD!

But what I said was, "Okay." All smooth and casual, I was good at that. I maintained that attitude the entire time Roger was asking me out for the first time.

In the bedroom, he stripped down to his boxers then pulled on a pair of sweatpants. "Do you want to borrow something for pajamas?" he asked.

"Why don't we skip pajamas?" I suggested. I walked over, kissed him hard and ran my fingers across his chest. He didn't have much in the way of hair, which probably decreased the impact of my advance.

Roger stepped back and took my hands. "Mimi, I don't want to do this while you're drunk, okay?"

"'m not _drunk_," I said, but my giggle killed the effect.

He kissed my cheek. "It's okay, Mimi. We'll just sleep it off, okay?"

He was pleasant to sleep with. He held me and breathed on my shoulder and though he didn't exactly snore, he occasionally made happy mumbling noises in his sleep.

I awoke somewhere around two a.m. when Roger pulled away from me far too vehemently to spare my self-esteem. He was sitting over the side of the bed, gasping for air, and after a moment I realized he was crying.

"Roger?" I shifted to sit beside him and rubbed his shoulder.

"Mimi," he said. My name sounded forced, strangled between breaths. "I… I was just dreaming about you…"

Dying, was my first guess. He had dreamed about me dying and it upset him. Then I realized that the reason he wasn't looking at me was that he was staring at his groin like he had never achieved an erection before.

"Oh. Roger, _this_ is not a problem," I said. I reached down and slid my hand around it, intending to jerk him off, but Roger pulled away from me.

"Don't!" he yelped. He was crying now. "_Don't, _don't, don't."

"Roger?" I asked. He shook his head, hugged his legs and put his forehead on his knees.

He whimpered, "Oh, _God_…"

I wasn't sure I wanted to be around him at that point. Who knew what would happen next? Roger might get angry, get violent. He might get… even stranger.

I slept on the couch that night, and I resigned myself to never having sex with Roger. What was _wrong_ with him? Who works himself up to tears over a little wet dream? And not even wet, he didn't even get that far.

--

I guess after that Christmas, when we broke up, it wasn't much of a surprise to either of us. I told him, evenly, "I think we'd do better as friends."

Roger looked at me for a long moment, then he nodded. "Yeah," he said, "you're right."

A girl likes a guy to fight for her, at least a little. Anyone else would have hurt my feelings by casting me aside so lightly. With Roger? Even before Santa Fe it was little more than gentle touches on the shoulder, warm hugs and closed-mouth kissing, usually lip-to-cheek anyway.

We were never going to be more.

_...to be continued!_

_Review? Pretty please?_


	8. I miss her

Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's

The nice thing about Mimi was  
she was someone to lie with when  
the world had turned dark. Did I  
use her? If she got what she wanted  
from me – a boyfriend – and I  
received from her the comfort  
who could _not_ savor, maybe we  
weren't much of a couple but  
our relationship was mutual and  
we were both, to some degree,  
satisfied.

But now I use her memory in missing  
her solely because I am alone and it  
is dark and I am cold, when I sense more  
than feel that I should have loved her  
once. And I didn't. She was never  
like April who wasn't safe and who  
never made me feel better, who made  
me feel lucky and grateful and  
inferior. Mimi was a comfort when  
the world turned dark and the  
sun was gone, and I miss her  
comfort.

_to be continued!_

_Reviews would be awesome_


	9. My Roger

Disclaimer: you all know it's not mine. It's Jonathan Larson's. Well, it was. I'm not sure who has the rights to it, now.

After Roger and Mimi left one another, despondence colored his moods and actions for a decent time. He showed sorrow, but I never believed he was sorry. I believed he was lonely. It was hard for him to sleep every night not for missing her, but for being alone. And then one night, after a decent time, he wasn't alone. He was mine.

---

Maybe this was one of his hide-and-seek games, one of his let's-toy-with-Mark phases.

Maybe it wasn't.

"_ROGER!_"

By this point, I had become quite frantic, racing through the loft, poking into rooms we didn't use, hadn't used:

The room Benny and I shared when we first moved in. Then Benny moved out. And he stopped collecting our rent, until it gathered so much set aside in a box hidden I-won't-say-where that we stopped putting it I-won't-say-where and put it in a savings account and gathered interest instead of dust and we never had to worry about buying food or AZT again.

Collins' bedroom, the one with the door, the one I sometimes wished Roger and I could use. Why not? Collins was at NYU, accepting housing through the university (claiming Roger and I needed all the peace and quiet to disturb). Roger's room still had a huge hole in it. But somehow I knew there was no way he would move into Collins' bedroom, especially since he still considered it Collins'.

Roger wasn't there, though.

He wasn't in our room, the kitchen. He wasn't on the roof or in the bathroom. It was nearly six o'clock, and Roger wasn't home.

"Roger!"

I kept shouting, like he might magically hear me.

He had to be here. Had to be _somewhere_ here, even if something had happened to him I would be the one calling an ambulance, even if even if even if…

_Mark._

That was when I saw the note, left inconspicuously on the table. Roger's writing splashed across the page, blue ink letters digging deep gouges on the paper; but the letters were neat. Roger hadn't been angry. He just pressed too hard.

_Mark. _

_I'm going over to Maureen and Joanne's. _

_Back later. _

_X _

_Roger_

X? _X?!_ Was that X was in cutting something off, as in no more "us"? Or was it X as in "XO"? Maybe it was Maureen having a breakdown.

No, I knew it wasn't. It was Roger. I sighed and slumped down into a chair. Why didn't I see this coming? Worse, why did I cause it? I shouldn't have ever done it.

That's what I thought when I was standing in the empty apartment, holding the note in my hand, crumpled, not needing to look at the words. They were burned into my head already. _Gone to Maureen's._ But how long was he gone to Maureen's? Was he coming home soon?

I shouldn't have ever done it.

It had been last night. Since Roger slept late and I worked in the mornings, this afternoon should've been the first we spoke since… it. Really, it isn't much of a big deal, is it? I do it all the time. I only asked him once—once! How could he call it degrading and still love me, when he made me do it?

But then…

Roger told me, the first time, when I swear I could _feel_ how much he wanted it, he told me he wasn't a bottom and never would be. "It just… makes me uncomfortable." I had kissed his mouth and told him that I was okay with that.

And until last night, I was true to my word. Then last night I told him I wanted to top. I told him it wasn't fair he always topped, I just wanted to this once, and if he loved me…

I assumed it was an angry sulk. After I finished, Roger turned away from me. He curled up to the wall, and would not answer when I spoke to him. When I touched him, his body tensed against shivers. I stopped trying to bring him around. The child!

Today, I came home and found him gone. Then the note told me his location, and I didn't even telephone ahead. I grabbed my coat and scarf and ran outside. I bounced in my seat on the subway, unable to sit still. At least when I was running, though I didn't move as quickly, I was _doing_ something.

Later it occurred to me that I could have been angry. I could have thought, _Let them deal with him! _I think, had I not initially been so frightened, I would have. Now, I needed to get there. I willed the train to hurry.

When it pulled to a stop in my station, I was out the doors before they had fully opened, shoving my way through the throng of people, pounding up the stairs. I had to get there, had to find Roger…

What was I going to do? The thought never occurred to me. As I turned onto their street, huffing and racing, I wondered if I was at all wanted. Had Roger wanted me to come fetch him? Probably not. If the X stood for a kiss, wouldn't he have coupled it with an O or another X? Did this mean Roger was leaving—had left me? Part of my mind insisted that on the bright side, he had left his stuff. Roger's clothes and notebooks were in the loft. His guitar was here. He would never leave it behind, not forever. But the most important part of Roger's belongings—Roger—was absent.

"Mark?"

I stopped and blinked. "Joanne." She looked cool, collected, professional, and utterly surprised. I was surprised, too, but with less reason. Running into Joanne outside her building should have come as no surprise; Joanne just home from a late night at the office, a common picture, proved less a surprise than… me, standing there wiping flakes of snow off my coat.

"What are you doing here?" Not annoyed, just inquisitive. She probably thought I needed legal help.

"Roger's here."

"Oh." She headed in, then paused. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Oh. All right. Well, you better come up. If nothing else for some water, you're bright as a cherry you know."

We stood together in the elevator listening to infuriatingly calming music. Joanne took off her coat and scarf and folded them over her arms. "So… how was your day?" I asked.

"Bad," Joanne answered emphatically.

"Oh," I said, feeling uncomfortable and guilty, like it was somehow my fault she'd had a bad day. Maybe it was. I'm sure she would rather have come home to her girlfriend than me and Roger.

"There's a new boss in the L.A. offices," she offered as an explanation.

"Oh." So it wasn't totally my fault. "Do you work closely with them?"

"Closely enough." She watched the door for a moment, holding a silent conversation with herself, hands flapping to illustrate a point. Then she turned to me and, still referring to her bosses, said, "They don't want me to defend Collins."

---

Roger was with Maureen. The first thing we heard upon entering the apartment was laughter, mostly hers, high-pitched and carrying, but the tentative chuckle accompanying it belonged to Roger. They were sitting at the table, Maureen carrying on an incredibly involved monologue between bites of popcorn and peals of laughter. She stopped, though, when she saw us.

Roger followed her gaze. "Oh." He had obviously been crying. His eyes were pink and his face pale. Roger's one of those people who goes all out when he cries. He sobs hysterically, can't breathe, and even if he's talking to you and cooking there are tears dripping down his face for an hour after.

He stood. "I should wash up." He turned his hands and I saw that they were indeed covered with something sticky. Then Roger disappeared into the bathroom.

"Maureen," Joanne started, "what—"

Maureen shook her head. She looked serious, the most un-Maureen-like Maureen I had ever seen. Joanne saw the change, too. She paused. "What's going on?" she asked much more gently.

"Umm… we… made popcorn balls!" Maureen replied. She picked up one, and I saw just how long they'd been making them. A large bag of popcorn balls sat on the floor. Some had been made with chocolate powder.

Roger emerged from the bathroom, still pink and pale but now dampened. Usually that description meant I was sucking his cock. He looked at me without looking at me, just sending his expectation. "Ready to head home?" I asked.

Roger nodded. "Thanks, Mo."

"Any time, sweetie."

Maureen called him sweetie. Just like that, standing right there, she just looked right at Roger and called him "sweetie".

We barely spoke on the way back to the loft. Roger was hunkered down in his mock-shearling jacket, the one he wore when it was cold and he wasn't feeling badass enough to wear leather. He just sat there, looking like he didn't know what to say to me, or like he was too scared to try. I had expected many things from Roger but never this. Anger I expected. Apology would have been welcome. But fear! Of me!

Who could've predicted that? Strong, manly Roger Davis cowering before meek little Mark Cohen. It was practically obscene.

At home he headed for the kitchen. "I think I'll make coffee." He poured water into a pot. We didn't have any coffee and he knew it, but before I could say as much Roger asked, "Do you want some tea?"

"No—I mean, I'll make it—I mean." I was still standing awkwardly by the door, and the longer I stood there the more awkward it became. I moved into the kitchen and touched his shoulder gently. Roger's breathing visibly shallowed. "Why don't you go to bed, Roger?" He looked like he needed the rest.

"O-okay," he murmured. My Roger. Murmuring. Shy. The world had turned wrong I didn't much care for it.

I followed Roger to bed a few minutes later. It was freezing. I turned on the radiator and pulled it close to the bed, shivering more than a little. Heck, Roger probably still had his jacket on and I couldn't blame him. It was our first winter as an us, and the hardest part was leaving the warmth of our bed.

When I saw Roger, I couldn't help but cry out. Well, actually it was more of a noise. Roger was shaking, obviously cold, but making no move to warm himself. He just lay there, face buried against a pillow, totally naked.

To say Roger wasn't the most beautiful thing to share my bed would be a blatant lie, especially to anyone who saw him then. But I just wanted to cry. This wasn't what I meant when I told him to go to bed. He looked tired. I just wanted him to rest.

"Oh, Roger." I pulled the covers up over him, then settled next to him. It wasn't until I was so close that I realized he wasn't only shivering from cold. "Roger?" I put my arms around him, but he didn't respond. "Roger, talk to me. Please, baby." I kissed his neck. That only made it worse.

I wouldn't say I gave up on him. That wouldn't be fair to say. Maybe just, I didn't know what to do. So I didn't. I didn't do anything. I just stayed there and held him and let him cry until he fell asleep.

_to be continued!_

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	10. Home sweet never

Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's

I stand by the window looking out at the street  
at the red flashing lights; at the couple next door;  
at the men with the giant black boots on their feet.  
I stand by the window and I try to ignore

how I hack and I cough and I choke  
it's only a moment, it's only for now,  
how under the door, in creeps the smoke.  
And standing there looking, I try to endow

my own sense of courage and hope  
while my body trembles  
and I struggle to cope  
and around me my home burns to shambles.

The smoke boils in through the crack  
beneath the door, into my throat  
and the heat licks burns on my back.  
Outside from the hall comes a harsh note

of wooden doors bowing, then torn  
into splinters. The fire consumes  
like a man so needy and utterly forlorn  
he uses and uses and his loneliness exhumes.

Then from up overhead, a loud crush of thunder,  
of arches, supports, of drywall sent under.  
It scares me so much that before I know  
it, I've broken the glass and leapt through the window.

Into my feet bite the fire escape stairs  
while a heavy rain my vision impairs  
and I hurry down, scared; to create a diversion  
trying to think of my last real excursion

into the world, and out of the apartment,  
until I'm safely in care of the fire department  
and while my home burns down to charcoal  
I catch a glimpse of two badges that sparkle

reflecting the flames of insatiable evil  
like fingers or tongues -- perhaps even labial  
but I just can't care as they claim their own  
the only home I have ever known.

_to be continued!_

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	11. Roger

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

ROGER

Usually if I cry myself to sleep, I won't wake up for a good long time, maybe eighteen, twenty hours. That day I woke up early. To be fair, it can't have been much later than eight o'clock, if that, when we fell asleep. I stayed up breathing in one-two-three out one-two-three until I was sure he was asleep. Scared. Of Mark.

Yeah, I know, that's pretty crazy. Me, afraid of him; he seems so little and meek but the truth is, Mark can dominate like hell and guilt like the best Jewish mothers. Mark's a scary thing when you're on his wrong side. And I wasn't sure if I was.

I hated it so much, lying there, afraid of the person holding me, trying to make it better but when he touched me I just…

So the next morning, I was out of bed early. It was a great morning – cold, clear. I forgot the radiator didn't work (again) and kicked it (again) and bruised my toe (again). Murmuring obscenities, I folded a paper towel into a coffee filter and put a pot of water on the stove. It was just one of those mornings – coffee, oatmeal, chocolate chips. I defy anyone to tell me chocolate chips don't belong in oatmeal.

Okay, I defy anyone to _prove_ it.

My throat was killing me, so I added honey to the oatmeal. Honey-chocolate-chip oatmeal is probably the best kind, ever, no questions. Mark disagrees but he'll always kiss me after I eat it. I was halfway through my second bowl of it that morning when the telephone rang. Usually when our phone rings it's Mark's parents or my mom, so I let it ring until the machine picked up. There was the gentle whirr of the tape starting up, our "Speak!", and then:

"Hello, I'm looking for Roger Davis." I looked over at the answering machine as though it might tell me something more. Oatmeal dripped from my spoon. _I knew that voice._ "I'm Dr. Tsang with the New York Police Department and it's very important that I speak with Mr. Davis—"

I shot off my chair so quickly it tumbled. So did I. I must've hit the ground loudly enough to wake Mark, but I didn't care. My knees and elbows stung and I nearly fell again in my haste to reach the phone. I did, just as he was preparing to hang up.

"Wait, please, this is Roger Davis!"

"Hello, Roger. Perhaps you don't remember me, but—"

I shook my head. "I remember you, Dr. Tsang." How could I not? Probably that was a formality. "What's going on? Is something—is Dad up for parole?" The idea didn't frighten me, strangely. Up until… probably shortly after I moved in with Collins, it would've. It would've terrified me – did, actually. No more.

"No," Dr. Tsang said.

"Roger?" That came from Mark. He stood in the doorway, doorhole really, to our bedroom, looking sleepy. He wasn't dressed except in boxers, and he was looking at me and asking for an explanation.

I covered the receiver. "Two minutes?" I begged softly. Mark nodded and disappeared into the bedroom. "Um, I'm sorry I interrupted you."

"It's fine."

"So… what's going on? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

"No. I wouldn't mind seeing you again, though, if you're amenable to the idea. I've heard worrying things, Roger. Running away from home—"

"There were some problems," I interrupted, feeling suddenly hot. I hadn't spoken to Dr. Tsang since I was fourteen, and the renewed contact… well, I regressed a little. Couldn't help it. It just sort of happened, the way it does when you're a teenager. I mean that in a completely non embarrassing-shorts-spraying-moment kind of way. "Sorry," I murmured.

"That's all right, Roger. I would like to speak with you, though. If you could come down to the station some time in the next couple of days that would be great."

"Yeah," I found myself agreeing with surprising ease. "Yeah, um, I can come down today." We arranged a time quickly: I would meet him at the police station in a little over an hour. After hanging up, I downed what was left of my coffee, put the oatmeal in the sink to soak, then headed for the bedroom. I needed to dress, didn't want to be a moment late -- and I needed to show Dr. Tsang how fully functional I was.

Mark was waiting, sitting on the bed, now fully dressed. "Roger?" he asked. I'll admit something: I wasn't scared. He was. "Where are you going?" he asked, like my mother, reminding me of my lies.

"Just an appointment," I told him. Not going out to cheat on you, not leaving you.

He fiddled with his glasses. "Oh... um..." It was awkward dressing with Mark watching me. I've stripped before, but never much liked it. Never done it for someone I cared about, though. I didn't much like it, but maybe that was what Mark really thought of me. The idea turned my stomach. "Can I come?" Mark asked, and I turned, shocked -- but he hadn't meant that. He wasn't even hard.

Realizing what he meant, I nodded. Mark wanted to come to my appointment. That would be okay. "It... might be kinda boring for you." He wasn't coming into the office without me, that was for sure.

"That's okay. I just want to be with you." He reached out and touched my sleeve. I had to resist the urge to pull away. Mark must've seen it, because he stopped and looking stricken he let his hand fall to his side. "If you want me," he added softly.

Did I? No. I didn't want Mark to see me walking into the police department. I know what he would think. I know what anyone would think. But I needed Mark near, or he would be afraid I'd leave him. I wouldn't. I just didn't want him to know.

"Of course I want you, Mark."

---

"How have you been?" Dr. Tsang asked. We were seated in his office; Dr. Tsang is the police psychiatrist. When last we spoke I was young enough to be in the children's office, a bright room with a lot of toys, but you don't dare touch them because you're afraid of what this will mean to Them, the cops. This time we used his regular office, a room with comfortable chairs, a lot of neatly shelved books and windows that would let in a lot of sunlight, were it not snowing.

"All right."

"What have you been up to the last few years?"

I gave him a quick overview. "I moved in with a professor from NYU." I didn't meet him there, but this makes it sound much better. "Umm. Had some trouble with drugs. My girlfriend killed herself, and... I spent a long time very isolated. Another girlfriend died, this one from AIDS. That was rough. But, um, I'm doing okay now. I'm with Mark, who you met."

Dr. Tsang, an Asian man in his mid-thirties, asked, "Why did you leave your mother's?"

I winced slightly and thought for a moment, then replied, "I couldn't be rehabilitated. I didn't belong there."

"Do you think your mother would agree with this?"

Defensive, I replied, "I send her postcards!"

Dr. Tsang nodded. "I know, Roger." He shifted slightly. "I've had to contact her." At that moment I nearly replied furiously. I left that life. She didn't want me fifteen years ago, she won't want me now. Dr. Tsang headed me off. He replied before I could start to speak, Dr. Tsang informed me, "You're a runaway, Roger, and in this city we have thousands every year. It means something to your mother that you're found, and to the police."

I sighed, but nodded. He's right. One runaway child found, well, it may be a drop in the bucket but enough drops can tip the statistic. Even if the child prefers not to be found.

Then it occurred to me... "How did you find me, anyway?"

"Someone accessed your file," he replied. "The person in question has been apprehended, but his lawyer claims to know you."

The word "lawyer" set off alarms in Roger's brain. "Joanne?" he asked. Dr. Tsang nodded. "But then... d-does she know..."

"Not yet. We chose to bring you in so that you might have some say, Roger. He claims to know nothing of the personal information in your file, but given the private nature there could be a damages suit. The complication here is that personal information about your past would come out at trial." And then he broke my heart. "He says he knows you, Roger."

"Fucking hell." There was only one man I could think of who knew me and had any skill with computers, and it wasn't Mark. "I want to talk to him."

"Are you sure--"

"Where's Collins?"

Dr. Tsang's expression changed when he realized it was true.

---

It's a lucky thing it was Saturday, Maureen thought, because Joanne could head down to the police station when Collins called. She'd been asked not to take his case, but on her personal time there wasn't much her bosses could do to stop her offering legal aid to a close friend. On company hours, however, defending an HIV-positive, homosexual liberal was against company policy.

And when Joanne left, Maureen followed. You just didn't keep Maureen away when she wanted to be somewhere.

She was sitting on the table, bored, watching Collins and Joanne exchange concerned looks, when I burst into the room. Maureen perked up in surprise. She hadn't heard the details of the case.

"How could you do this to me!" I demanded. Collins had stood up and started to say something, which gave me the opportunity to shove him against the wall, showing surprising strength for a skinny little guy -- or so I was later told. "How could you! I trusted you!"

Mark placed his hand on my shoulder and I turned away. How could he have...

"Roger?" Collins asked. His voice was low, like we were the only people there, even with Maureen and Joanne and Mark staring. "Roger, I'm sorry. I wanted to know. I invaded your privacy, and I shouldn't've done that. I'm sorry."

Then he stopped and waited. I wanted to say, _It's okay._ But I didn't. I couldn't. I just stood, shaking. So he added, "I don't know of anything after the fire."

"What fire?" Maureen asked.

There wasn't anything else for it. Sooner or later it would come out. Joanne would find some legal loophole to look it up, and Maureen would find out, and once Maureen knew...

So I told them the first part. "A little over three years ago..." I sighed. "A building burned down. In the city. They found me stumbling around in my underwear. I didn't know my phone number, my last name or my age. Didn't even know my birthday. I thought I was maybe eleven or twelve years old."

"How could you--?" Maureen started to ask, but Joanne shushed her.

Mark did the math. "Um, that would make you fifteen," he observed, somewhat nervous. No wonder. He had sodomized me.

"Well, I was wrong," I told him. "I was fourteen. They found my mother. In Hicksville. They sent me to her, but..."

Something clicked. Maureen said, "You're Evelyn Davis' boy!" I blushed, I lowered my eyes and I nodded. "I remember you. All the parents were whispering, and when you disappeared..."

"And I moved to New York," I filled in.

"But... what about before?"

I shrugged. Stared out the window. Tried to ignore the others in the room, tried talking to their reflections. "They split up when we were small. Me. My sisters. I stayed with my dad... he didn't much want a toddler, much less one who looked like Mom. Probably just kept me to get back at her. Then he didn't mind so much. He'd found a way to make a profit from it."

And then another moment of silence, a moment of everyone adding up just what my childhood had been, just what had made Roger Davis into the mess and ruin they knew today. Someone said "Oh, Roger..." and someone said "Oh my God". And after a moment, I started crying. Again. After everything, after admitting everything I had managed to hide for nearly two years, I lost control and owned up.

Mark tried once more, placing his hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away from him and fled across the room. After everything, I fled, sobbing, and clung to, of all people, Collins.

_to be continued!_

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